


Recurrence

by SandfireKat



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21752305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandfireKat/pseuds/SandfireKat
Summary: He knew it was wrong. He knew he'd promised he wouldn't do it again.He knew it would get him hurt.That was the point.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 26
Kudos: 294





	Recurrence

**Author's Note:**

> I had to get this out of my system real quick. Or...it was MEANT to be real quick, but it turned out to be three pages, so.  
> This wasn't meant to get anywhere but I like this concept/storyline so well I was kind of tempted to continue it...so I figure I could post it onto here and see if you all like it and would want another chapter! So please let me know! I appreciate you for reading as it is, and I hope you like it! ❤
> 
> Trigger warning for self-harm in the form of Malcolm putting himself in danger (as usual)

He was upset. He didn’t have a specific reason why. He was upset about _everything._ So he wasn’t thinking.

He did what he usually did. When he hated himself. Hated everyone around him. Hated _everything._

He went out.

It didn’t matter where to, as long as there were people there. Friday nights, this was typically easier, with the nightlife. A nightclub would be a good spot— a bar even better. He ended up choosing a bar. Somewhere close to his apartment. He waited until nine. That way, the crowds that had flocked out would have had ample time to get deep enough into their liquor. He walked the handful of blocks it took, not even feeling the cold. Instead, feeling oddly separated from himself…like he usually did when he did this.

He felt like he was a bystander, watching a stranger— knowing very well that this stranger was making a horrible, _stupid_ mistake, but not caring. He didn’t know this person – or, in this case it was more that he _didn’t_ want to know this person – so why should he speak out? Why should he say anything? He had the common sense to know this was wrong and yet he stayed silent, watching the stranger enter the bar and scan the crowd, methodically seeking out the person he knew would be best for this. Watching as they landed on their target— a man drinking with his friends in the back, laughing and talking loudly. Watching as they started towards him, a blank and apathetic look on his face.

He didn’t know what he said, once he got there. His mouth was on auto-pilot. His hearing was like radio static. He didn’t hear what he said to the man who was easily twice his size. When they glared at him and their mouth moved, he didn’t hear what came out. He didn’t hear himself when he continued, and he didn’t hear the squeal of their chair against the ground as they suddenly stood and towered over him. They were mad. He knew that much. _Good. But it’s not enough. Not yet._ That was the robotic, monotone thought that flashed through his mind right before he saw himself reach out and grab their drink and throw it in their face.

_That_ did it.

He felt nothing but satisfaction. Cold, dull satisfaction, the instant his shirt collar was being grabbed and the man’s first punch found home against his jaw. It hurt. So did the next punch. And the next. Malcolm Bright was not weak, or helpless. He could take this man in a fight, easily; he could defend himself and hurt this man _ten times_ as much as he was hurting him, and yet his arms didn’t so much as twitch. He let the man punch him over and over again, and when he was thrown to the floor he didn’t even try to push himself up. He was just leaning into the pain— into every punch, and now, every kick. He waited until it was all that was clouding his head; until there was nothing else he could possibly think about, but how much he hurt. No thoughts about himself or his father. Just pain.

Blinding, horrible… _relieving_ pain.

He had no idea how long it lasted, before someone was dragging the man off of him. He heard people trying to talk to him, but he couldn’t make sense of what they were saying. All he was aware of, was the pain. Of how much blood he felt, hot and sticky on his face. People were grabbing at his shoulders, trying to get him up, but he shrugged them all off. Somehow, he got himself up to his feet. Somehow, he staggered out the door and down the street enough. He stumbled to the side and his shoulder hit a wall— his legs immediately buckled and he dropped to the ground. He felt like he was going to be sick. Like he couldn’t breathe.

He reached into his pocket. His vision was blurry and his hands were shaking almost too hard to hold it, let alone find the contact he was looking for. But he did. He clicked it and brought it to his ear, straining to hear the other line over the ringing in his head. It was answered. He couldn’t make sense of what was said— he just cut them off mid-speech, mumbling the name of the bar he’d gone to. Once he did, his hand went limp; his phone hit the pavement with a clatter as his arm fell back to his chest. His head went lax to the side. His entire body felt like it was being stabbed into— every breath, the noose around his throat seemed to tighten, with the pain it inflicted. He closed his eyes, just focusing on the agony.

On what he’d set out to get.

The moment Gil spotted him, he was flooded with unspeakable relief and rage at the same time. He screeched to a stop and threw open his door. He rounded the car and sprinted for Malcolm, who was collapsed against the wall. He was a small, bloody heap. The closer he got, the more his worry grew, the worse his rage got. _“Malcolm!”_ It was pouring, but there was still so much blood on him. He didn’t rouse when Gil screamed his name and as he dropped to his knees he started to get out his phone, thinking of calling an ambulance. When Malcolm stirred just a little. He groaned. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Gil grabbed his shoulders, hauling him off the wall and sitting him up more. His head lolled, like his neck was broken. _“Malcolm!”_ he screamed again, angry and panicked at the same time. Malcolm’s forehead creased, under all that blood. His eyes opened, slowly and groggily. He was soaking wet. One eye was swelled shut. His lips were cut— blood was running down his chin. When Gil moved him, bleary pain flickered over his face. Like he was feeling all of it, but a world away. But at least he was aware. Gil squeezed his shoulders harder, ducking his head and letting out a fast breath as he felt his chest rip. It took him a few moments before he lifted his head again, refocusing himself.

“Bright, you—” He fumed, _tasting_ his anger, it was so strong. He looked him over, checking for broken bones. He didn’t see any. But it in no way lessened his rage when he looked back up at him. “I’m calling an ambulance,” he seethed. “You—”

“Nnnno…” He barley heard him, over the rain. “Nnnnno…hos…pi…” He couldn’t finish. His head was dipping forward again.

_“Bright!”_ Gil immediately snapped. “You’re _hurt!_ You can’t— _call me and not let me help you, you— damnit, kid!”_ he yelled, pain fostering in his chest so much it felt like he was burning from the inside, out. “You _promised me you wouldn’t do this again—_ last time you _promised me, kid, don’t you remember that!?”_ Malcolm didn’t react. His head was sinking; his eyes were fluttering closed. His chin was almost touching his chest. In his anger, Gil shook him hard. His head snapped back up, his eyes widening but staying unfocused. _“Malcolm I asked you a question!”_ he spat. It looked like he was going to say something, but nothing came out. _“Why did you do this again, Bright!? Huh!? I_ told you _to_ call _me! You promised this wouldn’t happen again— you promised you wouldn’t do this again!”_

Malcolm’s eyes closed slowly again. His lips moved, but Gil couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Gil ducked his head again, grimacing hard. Suddenly he was grateful for the rain. It hid all the tears that were running down his face, when he forced himself to take a deep breath and steady himself. He looked at Malcolm, despair overwhelming him and stealing his breath all over again. Still, he tried to breathe, as he nodded to himself. He hesitated, agonizing. But eventually he made the decision. He shifted close and grabbed Malcolm’s arm, looping it around the back of his neck. He had to do most of the supporting, but he was used to this routine. This had happened too many times. He helped Malcolm up and made his way slowly back to his car, so he could get him into the passenger seat.

Malcolm slumped back against the seat immediately, his head falling to the left. Gil shut the door and rounded to the other side. He pulled away from the curb and made for Malcolm’s apartment. It was close. The entire way, he was battling between rage and worry, like he always did when this happened. Which infuriated him. The fact that this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. “You’re an _idiot, Bright, you’re an absolute idiot,”_ he lectured as he drove. “What in the _world_ were you _thinking!? Why_ do you do this to yourself!? Why do you _constantly do things like this to yourself!? Huh!?”_ Malcolm was only self-conscious. He was barely listening— there was no chance of a reply. But he still lectured like there would be, as he parked and got him back out of the car.

“You told me everything was _fine,_ — did the last time not teach you a lesson!? When you _broke a rib!?_ Why didn’t you _call me!? I could have helped you!”_ He got inside and steered for the couch. He set him down, fuming and shaking as he took off his bloody, dripping coat. He took off his jacket and his tie, too. Malcolm was dead to all of it, his head hanging as he just let Gil take care of him. And he did his best.

He knew where Malcolm kept his first-aid kit, by now. He went to the bathroom and fetched it, gathering together as many towels as he could. He sat down, locking his jaw back as he started by drying him off. He took care in drying his hair, too, looking for head injuries. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any. All the ones he had were mostly on his face, and seemed superficial. Gil alternated from focusing on the injuries, to shooting him glares. He got out a gauze patch for the gash in his cheek, layering it with medicine before he did.

“I can’t _believe_ you did this,” he growled, as he patted the patch into place, his heart squeezing painfully at his weak cry. It lessened his anger for just a heartbeat, as he looked at him— at how out of it and groggy he looked. For a second, it almost left entirely. But he was fast to grab hard onto it and yank it back. He glared again, turning for another bandage. _“Well?_ What did you _think_ was going to happen?” he snapped. There was a cut on his forehead. Gil started to carefully lay a bandage over it. “You do this, you get hurt— _that’s_ what happens!" 

Malcolm’s eyes stayed closed. His head was lolling again. Gil’s eyes stung when he grabbed his chin and had to lift it up again for him. His throat was beginning to burn, as he got the towel again and blotted at his lips, cleaning the blood off of them. The pain in his heart was growing. His voice was weaker when he hissed: “You _promised me…_ this _wouldn’t_ happen again…” Malcolm flinched. He whimpered, but that was it. Gil shook his head, pulling away to survey him. “ _Why_ did you do this, again, Malcolm?” he whispered, his voice cracking on itself. _“Why_ did you do this to yourself, you _know_ you could have called me— you know I would have answered…”

Malcolm didn’t say anything. His expression had gone numb.

Gil searched his face, but came up with nothing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Eventually he gave up and sighed, wrapping an arm around the back of his shoulders and beginning to lower him. He set him down carefully, bending low and gingerly raising his legs to be up on the couch, too. He went to his bed and gathered his blanket and a pillow. He dragged it all back. He stayed gentle as he lifted his head and slid the pillow underneath it. He draped the blanket over him and tucked him in securely— he had to make sure he stayed warm, after being out in the rain for so long.

Once he was sure he was comfortable, Gil stayed crouched beside him for a moment, looking him over like there was still something left to do. But there wasn’t. All the blood was cleaned off— all his wounds were patched up. He looked peaceful and serene, now. Fast asleep. Sorrow clenched around his throat; Gil grabbed his blanket and tucked it up to his chin just a little bit more. With one last heavy sigh, he pushed himself away from the couch, rubbing his forehead with one hand and starting to wonder what the heck he was supposed to do now.

But the second he started to stand and pull away, something was stopping him. Gil froze, when Malcolm grabbed his sleeve. He looked back down, confused. His eyes were still closed, but Malcolm’s loose grip stayed. Gil weakened, standing still for a moment as he just stared at him. He hesitated, but then slowly crouched back down. Malcolm’s hand stayed on him. Gil settled on the floor, pained as he looked at all the bruises already forming on him. He was furious. But at the same time, when he looked at him, he felt drowning, aching sorrow and regret.

He reached out with the hand that Malcolm wasn’t holding onto, and brushed his bangs back. “Fine…” he sighed, shoving down all his anger. Trying to ignore it, at least for right now. It wouldn’t do any good— not right now, when he was barley conscious. “I am _very pissed,”_ he hissed, with one last flare. “And the _second_ you wake back up, you are in for a _world…_ of hurt— this is going to be _nothing,_ compared to what I’ll do to you…” But his face was quick to fall, again. He sagged, deflating like a balloon as all his energy left him. His voice dropped back down to a sorrowful murmur again. “But…that’ll be tomorrow,” he sighed. “Not now.”

Malcolm’s grip had relaxed, by now. His hand was limp, but it was staying on Gil’s arm, not moving.

Gil wasn’t moving, either.

He just softened, shifting closer to the couch. Watching him carefully like he likely would all night, as he murmured, “Don’t worry…I won’t go anywhere.”


End file.
